Mind The Mummy

A friend of mine with three kids once said that if she heard the song “Let It Go” one more time she would pierce her eyes with an icicle. You know, for added dramatic effect. “They have it on ALL THE TIME,” she said through gritted teeth. I concurred and nodded politely, as you do, sprinkling it with a customary solidarity sigh. “They play it like three times a week!” Wait, what? This time I felt like offering a big, fat “your kids need a lesson in true fandom, lady.” You see, the beauty of autism is that Thomas’ laser focus on a particular interest means that in our household we get through at least five viewings A WEEKEND, and then there are re-enactments of Princess Anna waking her sister Elsa up to build a snowman some 15 times in a row, plus exact lines from the film told to people in the park, at the supermarket till and to random strangers on the street.

Dear readers, brace yourselves.  This is a long post but there was no way around it.  When life’s plans change drastically you can either spend the rest of your days mourning your original path or you can remap the journey but there are no shortcuts for that and no pretty summaries either. At least not for me. I’m not good at bulletpointing my way through life. I need words. Words are my anchor, my breadcrumb trail into a new destination, my friend, my guiding light when it looks like I may get lost, my way out and my way back in. So brace yourselves. This is a long post but there was no way around it. Just into it.

Dear Son,

My feeding chair is bright and yellow with cute white chickens with red beaks. It was more expensive than the Ikea one you considered buying, remember Mother? You had high hopes for this high chair _ visions of slightly messy but wholesome meal times, filled with giggles and the occasional meltdown.

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s Christmas. Time to be grateful and acknowledge the gifts we already have in our lives and all that jazz. Some gifts in the parental life, you’ll agree, just keep on giving. Like getting kids dressed in the morning. “The Suckometer is strong with this one,” I hear you say and I’m nodding deeper than a GIF on steroids. Now, let me tell you, getting a little boy with autism to put on anything resembling an outfit kicks things up a notch to Olympic status. Every. Single. Morning. Aversion to textures, lengths, colours, necklines, joins forces with demand avoidance to create a vortex of endurance testing that eats through your patience faster than you can say Pac Man (showing my age here…). It also eats up whatever little time you, yourself have to get ready. Having trousers on and a top is a MASSIVE achievement. Putting something on your face to ensure people don’t mistake you for the Ghost of Christmas Past is next level business.

Last week was a tough one. The wheels of the crazy carriage were well and truly spinning at never before seen speeds _ work was at an intensity level where all sorts of nuclear buttons were being pushed, the house and its menacing trifecta of clutter, laundry and kid crumbs was threatening to swallow us whole, and the parenting bit was like losing on all fronts. Also I chose this very week to go on a bit of a carb-free run.  In the world of superlatively bad choices that one got all the medals.

Franklin,

Ok so this is gonna sound a bit creepy but I like to watch. I walk onto the train, grab a seat _ there are benefits to being at the start/end of the tube line _ and ready myself for the show. The Victoria line is my happy place. Sure it can get crowded, hot and smelly but so far no one has screamed for biscuits or demanded Hey Duggee at the top of their voices so we’re smooth sailing. Some days I’ll just make like an ostrich or any other sensible London commuter and bury my head in a magazine. But on others, especially if I’ve had little sleep and cannot but avoid all semblance of movement in order to conserve energy to stay awake at work, I just sit and watch my fellow commuters. So far I have seen the same people many times, sometimes on the way out and sometimes , though this is rarer, on the way back. There is the woman with the short skirt, fishnets, burgundy lipstick and eyeliner so thick it could hide nuclear secrets underneath. There is the blind man that gets on the tube with the seasoned prowess of a warrior. There is the woman in her mid forties in the thinning, greying brown hair. She sometimes morphs into a fiercely awake being if chatting to acquaintances that happen to take the same train, using the words of teenagers and clinging on to her FOMO. And then there is Ally Capelino  – she always carries a backpack by this brand and looks like an Ally so I commute baptised her (totally a thing) and her boyfriend.